4 short scenes during Naruto's childhood
by lorelei2876
Summary: A series of 4 short stories about Naruto, the meaning behind that foxlike grin, the orange jumpsuit, and what happens during the darkest, loneliest part of the night. rated T for one bad word.
1. Chapter 1

People would point and laugh behind their hands. Sometimes, they'd laugh openly, cruelly, making sure he heard. What kind of shinobi wears orange, they'd ask with a smirk. What do you expect from the village idiot, others would reply.

Naruto always pretended he didn't hear anything. But sometimes, when the not-so-subtle insults and the laughter would sneak past his protective cloak of conscious obliviousness, he'd fight back with a big "fuck you, too" disguised as a white-toothed grin. He'd throw back his shoulders, and strut down the middle of the street as though he owned it; a king clad not in royal purple, but in orange brighter than fire.


	2. Chapter 2

Naruto hated orange with a passion. When he found the clothing jumbled into a crumpled shopping bag in front of his apartment, he understood completely what the gaudy jacket and pants symbolized. The outfit – unworn and unused - had been a donation from the local clothing store. Nobody in town had wanted anything so loud and garish. So, of course, it meant that it was just good enough for someone like Naruto. It was a brashly colored reject from a pile of cast-offs thrown into a pile on his doorstep.

So Naruto wore the clothing with pride, sewing on his spiral symbol painstakingly, sometimes painfully as he pricked his clumsy fingers repeatedly. The clothing that was a mark of the town's contempt now represented everything he wanted: Recognition. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Respect. Orange was the banner he waved in front of the townspeople's eyes, an eye-searingly brazen challenge of "Ignore ME, would you? Let's see you try!"


	3. Chapter 3

Naruto had a lot of free time on his hands. Since he had no guardians to make sure – or care - that he went to school, he played hooky often. He would walk down the streets, peering into store windows, imagining a time when he could enter any of these stores without fearing that he'd be chased out with a curse and a threat.

He stopped in front of a clothing store, attracted by a bright flash of color in the windows. He peered in, trying to see what it was, and his eyes widened when he saw it. It was a jacket, slung carelessly over a mannequin's shoulders, with matching pants belted around its waist. It was orange. It was trimmed in blue. It was hideous. It was lurid and obnoxious. It was a shade of orange that is not found in the natural world. Naruto despised it with every fiber of his being.

It was a set of clothing that screamed for attention. On Naruto, it would have been tantamount to carrying a large "Kick Me!" sign. Having been the recipient of numerous small and transparent cruelties whenever he caught anyone's attention, he had learned to blend into the background. Life was easier if he made sure no-one noticed his existence. He'd borne the brunt of too many sly kicks if he caught anyone's eye, a rough shove when he didn't move aside fast enough, and knocks on the head or a slap on the hand for no reason whatsoever. It was easier to just… be quiet, not attract any attention whatsoever. Occasionally, he wondered why everyone hated him, but he could never find an answer, and thinking without coming to an acceptable, understandable conclusion was too painful. So he didn't think about it anymore. Life was how it was, etcetera, etcetera, amen. And living, no matter how lonely and ugly, was better than the alternative. But it was hard to believe that sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4

As far as he could remember, he had always been alone. Sometimes Naruto wondered who had taken care of him when he was a baby, who had fed him and changed him. He'd wonder if that person felt anything other than hate for the tiny, defenseless infant he used to be. Sometimes, when the loneliness threatened to overtake him, he'd imagine a pair of tender hands that drew him to a comforting breast. He would close his eyes tightly, searching for a sliver of a memory of warmth, the fond touch of human contact. He would curl up into a tight, protective ball on his lonely bed, arms wrapped around himself, and pretend that someone else was holding him. Lovingly. Tenderly.


End file.
